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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26841688">you were never supposed to leave</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/windupclock/pseuds/windupclock'>windupclock</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Avatar: The Last Airbender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Grief/Mourning, Parent Death, Sibling Bonding, Sokka (Avatar)-centric, aka possibly the meanest thing i have ever written, an exploration of sokka and kya's relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 00:28:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,709</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26841688</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/windupclock/pseuds/windupclock</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sokka's first word is mama.</p><p>(or: Sokka doesn't remember his mother, except when he does.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Katara &amp; Sokka (Avatar), Kya &amp; Sokka (Avatar)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>142</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>you were never supposed to leave</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>title is from welcome home, son by radical face!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>i.</b>
</p><p>Sokka’s first word is <em>mama</em>.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Long before he’s big enough to understand her words, Sokka’s mother narrates the world to him. Bundled up and cozy in the pocket of her amaut, tucked up against her warm chest, he listens to the gentle hum of her voice as she explains the process of cleaning hides or cooking dinner, step by step. Sokka closes his eyes, letting himself doze off. He knows he’s safe as long as he has his mama and his mama has him.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Before Katara is born, his parents have several talks with him about what being a big brother means. “When she’s born, she’s going to be very little,” his mother explains, holding her hands out to indicate the baby’s potential size. “She’s not going to be able to do everything you can, so we’re all going to have to help take care of her, okay? She’s going to need you to be there for her.”</p><p>Sokka nods solemnly. “Sister,” he says—or tries to, the syllables slightly mangled by his baby mouth. His mother smiles.</p><p>“That’s right. Sister.”</p><p>When he’s allowed into the room to see them after the birth, he nearly trips over himself in his eagerness to get to his mother’s side. The baby is as tiny as his mother said would be, her little face poking out of the blanket she’s swaddled in, all chubby cheeks and a flat bump of a nose. His mother pulls him onto her lap and shows him how to hold his arms right before she carefully lowers the baby into them.</p><p>Sokka stares down at his sister, suddenly choked up as she blinks her dark eyes up at him. “She’s little,” he murmurs. “Wha’s her name?”</p><p>“Katara,” his mother tells him.</p><p>“Katara,” Sokka repeats. It comes out more like <em> K’awa </em>. “I take care of her, Mama.”</p><p>“That’s my good boy,” his mother says affectionately, ruffling his hair. “I know you will.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Down, down, down,” Sokka chants, wriggling in his mother’s arms. “Wanna go see Dad and Ba’.”</p><p>His mother chuckles. He loves her laugh. He reaches up to pat her face with clumsy, mittened hands, and she catches his hand and pins it against her cheek. “I need you to be patient for me, baby,” she says. “They’ll be home soon, and you can see them then. Can you do that? Can you be my big patient boy and wait until they get here?”</p><p>Sokka squirms, then slumps dramatically, going limp in his mother’s embrace. “Guess so,” he says reluctantly. “Home soon? Promise?”</p><p>”Home soon,” his mother confirms, squeezing his hand. “I promise.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>When Sokka can’t sleep, he goes to his mother, and she wraps him tight in her arms and tells him stories. Her own father had been a storyteller of renowned skill, and she learned the tales and tricks of the trade from him. She spins stories with her voice like thread, and Sokka stares wide-eyed up at her and forgets the troubles that left him sleepless in the first place.</p><p>When she notices him drifting off, she laughs and carries him back to bed, tucking him in beside his sister. “Sleep tight, my little icicle,” she whispers, pressing a warm kiss to his forehead. “May the spirits bless your dreams and keep you safe.”</p><p>Sokka’s eyes slip closed. “You too, mama,” he mumbles, and then he falls asleep.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“What does that spell?” his mother asks, pointing to the characters she’s traced in the snow in front of them. Sokka leans forward and squints.</p><p>“That’s my name,” he announces, pointing to the first few characters. His mother nods encouragingly. “Um… is that part your name?” When his mother nods again, he grins, bouncing on her lap. “That says <em>son</em>, but little, and that’s… does this say ‘Sokka is Kya’s baby’? I am not a baby!”</p><p>“You’re <em>my</em> baby!” his mother protests, leaning down to press kisses all over his face, leaving him squirming and breathless with laughter. “No matter how big you get or how good you get at reading, you’ll still be my baby! You can’t outgrow it, I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Even when I’m… ten?”</p><p>“Even when you’re ten,” his mother agrees solemnly.</p><p>“Twenty,” Sokka challenges.</p><p>“Even when you’re twenty!”</p><p>Sokka screws up his face, trying to think of the biggest number he can. “Even when I’m… a hundred?”</p><p>“Always,” his mother says, as heavy as a promise. “No matter what.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sokka’s mother is the daughter of a healer. Although she has no bending ability herself, she learned everything she could, everything that required hard work and knowledge over magic. She’s the closest thing they have to a healer when Sokka is little, and she has her hands full with him—Sokka is rambunctious and a little clumsy at the best of times; when he starts training with the boomerang, his mother says several prayers.</p><p>She cleans his cuts, presses kisses to his scrapes, and feeds him broth when he’s too sick with fever to keep anything else down. She chides him every time, reminding him to be careful with sharp objects and not run so fast around rocks and wear more layers to keep from catching cold, but her tone is always fond. She knows her boy and his incorrigible spirit too well to expect him to listen to reason.</p><p>When Sokka is little, he never worries about getting hurt. He knows his mother will fix him right up. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sokka’s mother is there for him through every moment of his life, whenever and however he needs her.</p><p>Until she isn’t.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>ii.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> There was a split second between the before and the after, when Sokka stood in the open flap of their tent and hadn’t taken the first step in. The gut-wrenching sobs coming from Katara, so unlike anything he had ever heard, hadn’t registered in his ears, and the smell of burnt flesh had yet to reach his nose. There was a split second where Sokka didn’t recognize the way the body was slumped on the ground, the char marks on the hide walls of the tent, Katara kneeling in the snow. There was a split second where Sokka knew something was wrong but didn’t know what. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Then there was only the after. </em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sokka doesn’t remember his mother.</p><p>Sokka can’t.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> They laid her to rest outside the village that night underneath Tui’s light. As they surrounded her body with ice and stones, Sokka did not cry. He had never felt this numb before.  </em>
</p><p><em> They laid her possessions on top of the grave, and Hakoda led them in the blessing for the dead. Sokka barely recognized his father’s voice, thick and rough as it was with furious grief. He whispered the words along with his tribe, eyes squeezed shut, and silently begged Tui and La and whatever other spirits were out there to keep his mother safe. </em>She didn’t deserve this,<em> he told them. </em>She was my mom.</p><p>
  <em> The spirits didn’t seem to listen. </em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sokka wasn’t there when his mother died.</p><p>Sokka didn’t see it happen.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> A week after they buried her, Katara disappeared. Sokka was meant to be watching her. He found her at their mother’s grave, clutching a blue necklace in her fist. It was as familiar to Sokka as his father’s face. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Katara, you can’t—” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I made a trade,” Katara said, gesturing to a pair of their mother’s boots sitting atop the ice. “I’m not stupid, I’m not stealing from—I just need it, Sokka. It’s supposed to be mine now.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Okay,” Sokka said. “Alright. It’s yours.” He fought back the tears that stung his eyes and reached for her. “Come on, let’s get back home and I can put it on for you.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Katara flashed him a tiny, broken smile, and Sokka wrapped his arm around her shoulders and led her home. He looked back once, and then made himself keep walking forward. </em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sokka doesn’t let himself remember her.</p><p>Sokka doesn’t let himself miss her.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> Those first few weeks were dark and endless. Katara was frozen, spending most of her time wrapped in their mother’s parkas that swamped her tiny body, curled up small and crying, crying, crying. Sokka held her when she let him, letting her muffle her tears against his chest, but it didn’t stop the crying. It didn’t fix anything. It didn’t bring their mother back. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> All he could do was lie there, holding her tight and stroking her hair. </em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sometimes Sokka hates his mother a little bit. He <em> knows </em> it’s not fair, but he hates her for dying, for leaving them behind to pick up the pieces and put themselves back together again. How could she leave them? How could she be gone? How could she disappear and expect the world to keep going on like it had before?</p><p>Sometimes Sokka hates himself a little bit. It should have been him.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> She showed up in his dreams every night that first month. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sometimes it was the mother he remembered, whole and warm and sweet-smelling. Sometimes it was the corpse with the hole in its chest. Sometimes it was both. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Some of them were only dreams—the ones where his mother was alive, either brought back or never dead, where he hugged her again and he wasn’t empty anymore—but some of them felt, somehow, like more. In those, he was always standing in a field like nothing he had ever seen before, surrounded by plants of all different shapes and colors, and he would catch glimpses of her, sometimes distant and sometimes nearly close enough to reach out and touch. He tried to call out, but the wind swallowed his voice. Sometimes he could see her lips moving, but he could never make the words out. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> They were only dreams. The dead didn’t speak. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He came to hate waking up. </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>iii.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Sokka only talks to his mother on the anniversary of her death.</p><p>The first year, he has nothing to say. There is a storm a year to the day, and the wind would swallow any words he came up with, and he has nothing to say to her that isn’t tear-soaked and useless as a prayer. What good would it do his mother’s spirit to hear that he loves her? That he misses her? That he wants her back? Words won’t change anything.</p><p>The second year, Katara wakes him with her tears in the middle of the night. He gathers her in his arms and stifles his tears into her hair. “When will it be okay?” he whispers. His mother is not there to hear it, he knows. He squeezes his eyes shut. “When will you stop haunting us?”</p><p>The third year, the anniversary comes right before the men leave for war. He knows they won’t let him leave with them, and he knows that won’t stop him from trying. “Mom,” he says, face tilted to the sky. His voice breaks over the word. “Why did you leave us behind? We—Katara needs you, Mom. Dad and Bato need you. <em>I</em> need you. Everything is falling apart, and they’re <em>leaving</em>, and I—I miss you. I wish you could come back. I wish you hadn’t <em>left</em> us.”</p><p>The fourth year, he says nothing again.</p><p>The fifth year, their—his—conversation is the longest yet. He tells his mother about Katara, about how dedicated she is to practicing her bending, about how big she’s getting. He tells her that he can feel something looming on the horizon, that it feels like it’s only a matter of weeks before—something. Sokka isn’t sure what it’ll be. He tells her about how much he misses Dad and Bato, and how much he knows they miss her. He tells her about how he’s trying to train the little kids to become warriors, but their hands can barely wrap around the hilt of a spear. He doesn’t tell her that he misses her. She already knows, and nothing has changed.</p><p>The sixth year, everything is different, and he sits underneath a Fire Nation moon and speaks to the ghost of his mother a world away. He tells her about the new family they found: an airbender barely thawed from a hundred-year sleep, the world’s greatest earthbender, the leader of the Kyoshi Warriors, and the shamed and banished Fire Prince. “I know,” he says, chuckling softly. “It must sound crazy, but… you would like them, Mom.” He wipes the back of his hand across his eyes. “I’m doing my best,” he promises her. “I’m trying to take care of Katara. I’m sorry I’m not doing well enough.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>iv.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>The moment Katara sees Sokka when she gets back from her recreational vengeance field trip with Zuko, she hurls herself at him, throwing herself into his arms for the kind of fierce, painfully tight hug she usually reserves for near-death experiences. Sokka hugs her back as tight as he can—she needs this. That much is obvious.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Katara mumbles into his neck. Sokka squeezes her tighter for a moment before setting her down.</p><p>“Sorry for what? Did you do something I should know about?”</p><p>“I didn’t… I didn’t do it,” Katara says, her voice small. She shakes her head. “That’s not what I’m sorry for, though. That—that was the right choice for me. I’m sorry for saying you didn’t love Mom as much as I did.” She ducks her head, worrying at her bottom lip. “That wasn’t fair.”</p><p>“...no,” Sokka says. “It wasn’t. But it’s okay.”</p><p>“It’s not,” Katara insists. “She was your mom too!”</p><p>Sokka shuts his eyes for a moment. It takes effort for him to say, “Yeah. She was.”</p><p>“I just—I don’t understand how you’re so—” Katara breaks off and groans in frustration. “Why doesn’t it <em>bother</em> you?”</p><p>“You think it doesn’t bother me? You think, what, I’m just fine with it?”</p><p>Katara flushes. “No! Of course not! But you… you didn’t need revenge. You weren’t angry like I was.”</p><p>“Of course I was angry,” Sokka says slowly. “I wanted to burn the Fire Nation to the ground. Give them a taste of their own medicine. I wanted to rip every last firebender apart with my bare hands. I never saw the man who killed her, Katara. It wasn’t personal for me. It was all of them.”</p><p>“But you didn’t… you never talk about her,” Katara says helplessly. “It’s like you don’t even remember her!”</p><p>Realization dawns on Sokka. “You heard what I said to Toph that day.” Katara looks down, crossing her arms and not denying it. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says gently, touching her elbow. “Of course I remember her. She was—she’s my mom. I… I can’t picture her face anymore, that’s true, but that doesn’t mean I don’t remember anything about her.”</p><p>“Then why do you never talk about her, huh? Why do you act like she never existed?” Katara’s eyes brim with tears.</p><p>“Because… because it’s easier that way,” Sokka admits. “It <em>hurts</em> when I think about her, and I can’t… I don’t know how to deal with that. I don’t know how to think about her and still be okay, and I have to be okay so I can take care of you, so I just… I don’t think about her.”</p><p>“That’s not <em>easier</em>!” Katara snaps. “That’s stupid! If you broke a bone, would you just ignore it and get used to the pain? Or would you set it and splint it so it could heal again?”</p><p>Sokka presses his lips together. “The second one,” he says grudgingly.</p><p>“<em>Yeah</em>,” Katara says with a huff. “Of course you would. If you never deal with it, it’s never going to get any better.”</p><p>“Is it better for you?”</p><p>“...sometimes. I’m not saying it stops hurting, Sokka. I don’t think it ever will. But it helps. The more you talk about it, the less you feel like the pain is going to kill you every time you do.”</p><p>Sokka takes a deep, steadying breath. “She had warm hands,” he blurts out. “Do you remember that?”</p><p>Katara gives him a tiny, blinding smile. “Yeah,” she says softly. “She did, didn’t she?”</p><p>“She was a good mom,” Sokka says. His throat feels too tight to say anything else, but it’s a start.</p>
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